[Worship] once upon a dream —

[Aislinn]

A I S L I N N stardust and hurricanes she was Stormsong. The name resonated in her so deeply, intimately, that she was at a loss for words. Ice-blue orbs blinked in surprise, taking in the view of him as he stood gracefully, the tinkling of golden trinkets echoing in the mountain aclove. Her king was here, standing before her and as real as any dream she had before. By the stars, the Goddess herself was toying with them both it seemed; a dance of encounters since the stormsinger had first met him at his own coronation. Smoke and mirrors and burning desire. Here and now he stood before her, and they were completely, blissfully alone. Her selfish wanting was also accompanied with the roil of wariness, however, as she felt intrusive for stepping into something that was private.. oh so very private, and sacred. She knew the importance of prayer; knew in her heart how much it meant to sit in solace with no one else but with Calligo. As if a cord of red ribbon tied them, Aislinn was drawn to him; over and over they met, as if the night-blessed Goddess was pulling the strings of fate herself. A soft musical chuckle rumbled in her throat at the thought as it crossed her mind. Maybe the Goddess was right -- of course she was -- for them to find each other again and again. Reichenbach was the king of shadows and stars, wild and spirited as she was untamed summer storms. He was her match; a wanderer, a protector, and as much a son of the Night's darkness as she was a daughter to the stars. She couldn't deny any longer what she felt in her blood and bones, her heart fluttering against her rib cage. Her king was Night made man; handsome and shrouded in shadows that enticed her. Thinking this, Aislinn took a slow, nervous inhale, gingerly stepping deeper into the cave. Damn her, but she refused to deny what she felt any longer. So she fell against the ribbon that seemed to tie them, allowing herself to step a little further into the citadel. Stars above them, he broke the silence with his voice of baritones that had a shiver running across her skin. She silently winced at his question, cursing to herself that she allowed herself to show even the slightest hint of weakness. Folding her wing, she fluffed her feathers, her gaze momentarily averted to peer at the scabbed wound on her right side, and down to the missing plumes. Clearing her throat, she sucked in a breath. "I, um," she started, a grin playing at her lips at the memory, "a spoil of a spar, Your Grace." She shook her wild mane of starlight and inky night threads, rolling her shoulders to shake off her embarrassment. The last thing she wanted was for him to worry about her; she was a soldier after all, trained and loyal and longing for the battlefield. It was in her blood, just as much a gypsy as she was a warrior-hearted woman. With a few slow blinks, Aislinn looked up at his warm, handsome face -- her breath catching -- as she bit her lip. "It's surely nothing -- it seems to be healing quickly." @reichenbach eeep our confused little cinnamon rolls c: I am so sorry for this Ash is just feeling all of the emotions holy moly "Aislinn speech."